


Consecutive Points

by Bidawee



Series: Roots Run Deep (sire/dam) [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breeding, Dark, Drugged Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied Mpreg, Impregnation, M/M, Medical Procedures, Needles, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15566835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: MESSAGES                                                                                              nowFerrisYou’ve been drafted to carry this term as a dam. Your appointment is at 254 Dundas Street on June 22, Friday at 7am. Please respond immediately.





	Consecutive Points

**Author's Note:**

> [This is a work of fiction and does not accurately depict the people listed inside. Please do not share this on social media nor harass people about it, whether they are in the story or not. Please know that I do not condone forced drugging or encouraging non-consensual relationships and am only using this as a character study. This is an alternate universe separate from real life. Thanks.]
> 
> please please please heed the tags. there isn't direct noncon but it comes dangerously close and i don't want anyone hurt because of me. for the rest of you, please enjoy!  
> > stemmed from the idea of: would it be farfetched to write a fic where an nhl uses their best players as studs? 
> 
> More detailed explanation of tags is in the end notes.

He got the initial text from his agent a month after they were eliminated from the playoffs, in the middle of a match play of golf with family friends and old teammates meant to commemorate some cousin he’d never heard of’s birthday. The ambience of sweltering heat and summer flies zig-zagging by their faces was so rudely stomped on by his signature ringtone, the lock screen flashing the contract information in bold, black font. If that wasn’t enough to distract his swing, the vibrations sending him off course and into a temporary time-out.

While was anticipating contract negotiations, he wasn’t a practical free agent until the end of next season. In that regard, getting a text from his agent was the last thing occupying the back of his mind, so upon seeing the name flash his train of thought swerved right and t-boned him enough to wind him. It was a vicious spiral of hysteria, which meant fast-walking to the nearest patch of shade to get a clear vantage point to read it from.

The vile, simple-worded text burned more than swallowing a carton of lye in one sitting.

**> You’ve been drafted to carry this term as a dam. Your appointment is at 254 Dundas Street on June 22, Friday at 7am. Please respond immediately.**

Nothing else needed to be added to the message, the coordinates pulling him to Google already deafeningly loud. He remembered dropping his phone, nearing it crash to the grass and soil and skip a few paces away from him because of the momentum. It was minute in comparison to the hypothermia freezing up his joints, shackling him to an idea he'd spat at since juniors. Now, it was flashing itself at him, trying to take his hand.

He couldn't understand. Texting wasn't sufficient enough to voice his complete paradigm shift, so he swiped his phone, made some half-hearted excuse about needing to take a bathroom break to dispel his family’s worried quips, and redialled his agent from the safety of the lakeside serenity. The dial tone was absurdly loud in his ear, counting down the morsels of time scraped away, that he could never get back. It felt as though he could never unhinge the tension in his shoulders again because what the message implied was everything and more.

When his agent finally picked up, Mitch’s voice box unleashed a series of noises and arguments that even he couldn’t recall. His agent didn’t bother trying to fight the bubbling brook of insults and waited out the storm patiently until Mitch was run ragged and his throat was hoarse from screaming.

“Mitch, slow down. This is a good thing.” More insincere and incorrect words had never been said to Mitch’s face in his lifetime. If he had a plate or any kind of projectile in his hands, he’d smash it on the ground.

“This isn’t fucking good, it’s fucking inhumane, you said--”

“They want you as a breeder. Not a stud. Let me tell you something; I’m obligated to not sprout names but think of Crosby, Seguin, soon-to-be Boeser. What they all have in common is that they carried. Teams don’t trade carriers, it’s too risky. You get a bigger contract once you’ve had a kid, they take it into account. Studs? You can find just about any of them on the streets.”

His agent could’ve followed up his message with pretty much anything and it wouldn’t mean shit. Players got picked to be breeders for one reason alone. “It means they don’t see me as worthy of being a stud.”

“This is what you wanted.” His agent kept the ardour in his argument alive, words spoken with a kind of fervour Mitch detested with a passion. “Toronto is your home. Now you can stay here. You have no obligation to raise the kid and you can maintain any relationships you want on the side without trouble. I mean, look at the Nylanders. You know Willy and he turned out perfectly fine.”

Mitch began chewing at his lip, blood flowing freely once the teeth worked past the dry skin. “I still don’t think--”

“Just report to the address I gave you and they can talk it over with you. I assure you it’s perfectly safe. After which, we can resume contract negotiations, sound good?” Mitch knew he couldn’t see, but shook his head against the chipping plastic of his phone case, still struggling to shoulder the news.

“You gotta help me out man,” he managed. He didn’t want to do this alone. Wanted someone on his side.

From the other end of the line, he heard his agent exhale, the feedback from the closeness of the action buzzing in Mitch’s right ear. “I can’t help you, they’ve made up their minds. Just go; maybe it won’t be so bad. After all, it's your duty to the team to be the future."

 

The clinic was situated on a busy intersection in plain view of a restaurant and pet store, as if to mock him. He may as well have neon banners pointing him out to the masses, cataloguing him as a slut about to open his legs and take someone's seed for hockey's future.

It wasn't snowing outside, so he had no cardigan or hoodie on that he could use to conceal his face. It took all he could muster to cross the crosswalk and not lock eyes with any would-be fans, and then reroute back to the clinic and open the smudged glass doors with a single hand.

Inside, the walls were pasty and it stank of chemicals and chlorine. Knowing the target demographic, they'd probably soaked all the furniture in bleach. Luckily for him, he was the only one there in the waiting room and could be self-assured in his anonymity wading through the ocean of pamphlets and parents magazine novels. The depth of it made him want to throw up in his mouth.

The receptionist’s small, timid smile cut through the worst of his fears and let him breathe. She apparently didn't even need to hear him certify his name--it was the reason they'd given him a time stamp to be in by--and pushed him a clipboard with several heavily worded documents.

“The doctors want to know when you last got your blood tested and any hereditary diseases. Oh, and your signature of consent on the last page.”

He could snort, consent. What a finicky concept. If he was going to sign his soul away at least give him credit there. This was a lawsuit breaker, something to use against him all because his name was stamped to some piece of paper with more fine print than the average political essay.

Regardless, he braced it against his knee and signed it anyway. They wouldn't let him leave gracefully if he didn't. The other sheets were much of the same, talking about things he couldn’t hope to understand. He scribbled down kidney disease on his mother’s side and risk of heart attacks on his fathers, although he was sure the latter’s condition wouldn’t carry over to him. He didn’t carry nearly as much stress and anger as his father did.

With his T's crossed and I’s dotted, he handed the sheet in and waited his turn. Without other people taking up space in the clinic, the waiting room resembled more of a morgue. Despite the size of the building there looked to be only a few active people on staff. The ones that did approach him plastered fake smiles on their faces and continued relaying their trays of scary levers and pulleys to whenever their target was. The inside of his arm itched at the thought.

Eventually, the door behind reception opened and out came a small, dainty little lady dressed in scrubs with a mask hanging around her neck. She took one look at Mitch before her face split in joy, eagerly greeting him with an enthusiastic handshake that sent his arm bouncing.

“Hi Mitch, I'm Alisha,” she introduced herself. “I’ll be one of the nurses on staff for your pre-conception treatment. Doctor Marchessault will see you in just a minute. For now, could you do me a favour and eat this?”

She had with her a plastic cup covered by a styrofoam lid. The content inside was a burgundy colour, with little chunks of white chipped inside of it. On top, there was a single plastic spoon waiting.

“What is it?” he couldn't help but ask.

“You're going to need a couple of shots. This is just to keep your blood sugar up. It's also got some nutrients to keep you going once you get in there.” She smiled. It sounded reasonable enough. He accepted the offering with a muttered thanks, too burdened with anxiety to exercise proper manners.

He slid some of the gooey consistency on the spoon and swallowed. It tasted like a combination of apples, blueberries, and something sweet. Simply put, not the worst thing he'd had the displeasure of eating, and certainly not a trouble to consume. Alisha gave him the thumbs up and backed away into the hall, disappearing from sight.

The weird custard-like texture of it slid easily down his mouth, but it was the aftertaste he really focused on. It was hard to pinpoint but was definitely sour. It coated his tongue in a film that was somehow powdery. He couldn't place what it was even after smacking his lips together for a solid minute.

He scooped up the remainders of the pudding-applesauce monstrosity and scraped the jellied bits off the cover to eat as well. When Alisha had returned, she looked at the empty cup with glee, kindly asking he dispose of it in the trash can beside the couch in the waiting section.

“Follow me,” she said, and entered a glazed door blocking them from the outside. Mitch strode in behind her, the artificial smell of a hospital almost nailing him to the wall.

They passed several masked employees before reaching a tiny cleft with three or more rooms peppered inside. Stagnant and foreboding, they death marched him to one of the many treatment rooms, wherein there lay a sterile examination table lined with a thin white sheet, two metal brackets extending from the rear end. He hoisted himself on top of it, mindful of the patient gown draped beside him and practised deep breathing as nurses flocked in and out, checking vials and running equipment under the sink until it shimmered with the reflection from the water.

They left him alone for three minutes so that he could shed his street clothing and tug the gown on. There were snaps securing it around his shoulders and where the sleeves would lie, the back open to examination.

Alisha reentered, fixing her brown hair in a tight bun and snapping on a pair of gloves that had small dents where he nails lay. She grabbed a package of hygiene wipes and walked toward him, the other hand clamped down on a collection of alcoholic cotton swabs. Wordlessly, she dabbed the damp tissue matter in the crook of his elbow, striping the hairs there and pressing them flat to the skin. She made no attempt to speak or reassure him, moving mechanically in her task until his arm gleamed. That’s when the doctor overseeing the procedure sauntered in, door flapping behind him.

“Good morning Mr. Marner, how are you today?” he asked, heavily accented voice churning out the sweetest tone imaginable. It didn't do its job in reassuring him when he viewed the man as an opponent rather than a friend.

“Fine.” He planned to keep his answers short.

“It’s good to meet you,” he shook Mitch’s hand vehemently before turning back to his paperwork, “I’m doctor John Marchessault but you can call me John." Mitch stayed mute, tucking his chin into the cleft made from his hunched shoulders. "A little thing about me since you don’t sound like much of a talker; I’ve been in IVF treatment for almost sixteen years now so you’re in good hands Mitch. Can I call you Mitch?”

Mitch shook his head dumbly. “Yeah. Yes that’s fine. I guess I’m just a little nervous. People don’t really talk about how this goes on.” His ears burned with the shame of admitting it, wanting nothing more than to retreat into his shell. John patted the table twice, sheet crinkling and creasing under the blows.

“Well, it shouldn't take more than ten minutes and it’s virtually painless so let me assure you there. I'm just going to ask you to sit back, relax your shoulders and put your feet in the stirrups here.” He patted a set of restraint spread an unreasonable distance from each other. The metal hinge supporting the braces shook, as brittle as a pair of twigs that he didn’t feel comfortable supporting his legs on.

Mitch sucked in a walloping breath and complied with his orders, albeit reluctantly. The fierce tension in his body couldn't be killed despite his best efforts to drop his limbs and go limp. His body, much like his mind, was preoccupied with keeping the outside out, where it should be.

Placing his feet in the stirrups only made his discomfort more pronounced. To look over his chest, he had to angle his neck up and put a large amount of strain on his spine. It was easier to just stay down and rest his head on the plush surface of the headrest than pick a fight with gravity. Just as he was working against all odds to get himself comfortable, the doctor brandished a capped syringe, pulling the rubber protective gland off of the prick and sticking it into a feed. As he pulled the barrel back, the needle greedily sucking in a bout of superfluous liquid, all bubbles dispelled so that it resembled a kind of jelly.

“What is that?” Mitch asked, stomach clenching in pure, untamed anxious energy. Before receiving any sort of answer, John screwed the lid back on and took a seat beside Mitch, taking his left arm and steadying the needle against it. The clear liquid inside of the syringe capsule danced in the oppressive lighting, the bevel poking at his skin and ready to penetrate. He didn’t want it inside of him before he knew what it would be doing.

“Prescribed gonadotropin, it’ll make you feel a bit woozy at first. Deep breaths,” the doctor anchored the insertion about forty-five degrees and then pressed the plunger to push the contents of the barrel into his bloodstream. Mitch siphoned in air, trying to take his mind off of how he could feel every inch of the insertion.

He was still in partial recovery mode when the doctor turned back to his tray and the many assortments of tools, humming to himself as he wielded yet another syringe. Compliant, Mitch wasn’t expecting the Doctor to pinch his forearm and administer the second shot, and that’s what made him uncoil and spring up, almost knocking the tray over. It was the nurse who was the one to grab him by the waist and pull him seated onto the examination table, but it wasn't calming him down, not one bit.

"The doctor slowly removed the needle, pressing a cotton swab into the area of impact where the blood was welling. Blotting it only made the sting continue to blister under the skin.

“We’ve given you gonadotropin and clomiphene which should help your body adjust,” John interrupted, “If you start to feel aroused, don’t worry, it’s just the drugs taking effect. We’ll wait until your blood is pumping to give you urofollitropin.”

Mitch felt faint at the laundry list of medications swarming his bloodstream. “There’s more?” He couldn’t stabilize his voice, no matter how strong he tried to make himself appear. The foreign substance inside of him already made him feel tingly, half-buzzed and stifled at the same time.

He received little to no response from the medical staff. They had the process down pat, moving around each other almost like two dancers working in rhythm. It didn’t translate to any comfort for Mitch; quite the opposite actually. He was seeing stars, but not in a good way, and he wanted them to chase the foreign tingles out from his arteries.

His dick began chubbing up from the supplements forced into his body, a heated flush spreading up his neck and cheeks. Despite pressing his thighs together, it didn’t hide his erection and only made it more noticeable, the thimble articles tenting to show off how little self-restraint he had from the workings of medicine. Of course, the reaction was expected, but he hoped he could practice stamina longer than a minute or two. It was like blowing a load early; you got nothing from it.

The doctor was messing around with the contents of one of the drawers, pulling out bottles and capsules full of milky white substances until he’d located what he was looking for; a clear bottle with a yellowish tint and a cream-like consistency. It, unfortunately, was eclipsed by the reveal of a bottle of lubricant being placed in front of it, daunting in its brightly-coloured logo.

“By now your muscles should have loosened,” the doctor reported, walking over and placing the collection of bottles beside the swabs on the side tray beside the examination table. “I’m going to have Alisha finish with the urofollitropin and I’m going to lubricate your entrance so the initial penetration isn’t as painful.”

Mitch felt himself stiffen up. “Like, you’re going to put your fingers _in_ me?”

“Yes. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but if I don’t then your partner will be going in dry, and then you’re prone to bleeding and increased sexual disease transmission. It’s for the best.”

“Okay,” he sputtered, close to tears. A choking sensation was accompanying his racing heart. It was his physical cry for help and yet, it went unheard by the medical staff.

Tense, it was futile trying to feel the tertiary syringe enter because all his vision could zone in on was the personal, water-based lubricant being squeezed out of a thin tube in juicy globs onto the gloved fingers. It wafted a smell of cherries, but it’s succulent red colour only made him feel reminiscent of blood. Thick, heavy, blood forced into him.

Since he’d never bothered experimenting, the initial push inside of him made him tense up so badly the doctor had to pull back out. The stern look he got in response didn't help and only made matters worse.

The coercion returned and probed away, it dragged across his walls and opened him up until the compulsion to close his thighs became too strong. The assistant nurse grabbed his hand and let him squeeze it, although it was likely more to open up his arm for another goddamn shot to the arm. That one hurt the most, but in hindsight, it lessened his concentration on the fingers inside of him, allowing the doctor to slip in one more and scissor him.

There was some kind of solvent on the gloves, initially cold but quick to warm up, and no, it wasn't lubricant because it had a distinct yellow sheen he could see even from his flat positioning. The heat pressed inside of him intensified to an itch and then an ache, and before he knew it, he was rolling his hips.

“Just a sec,” the doctor grunted. He changed the angle of his fingers and hit something that had Mitch shrieking. He pressed so hard into the nurse’s hand that he was sure he could bend the shape of it.

Hitting it didn't make him feel any less eager. He tried to help the man by angling his hips down, but to his dismay, he only flicked the spot once or twice to coat it with the gel and then retreated, leaving him wholly unsatisfied.

“That'll do it. Alisha, you got him on a mild sedative, right?” she nodded, “good. You're ready for the races Mitch.” He patted Mitch’s thigh, oblivious to how that tiny smack made his senses explode in a supernova of pleasure. It just wasn't concentrated enough where he wanted it.

“Is that it?” he whined, despite his best efforts to keep his trap shut.

“The medication you're on will help you loosen up, anything more and it'll just agitate you. I think you'll be fine without a toy.”

“Please! It's burning.”

“That will go away. Don't touch yourself, just let it happen. I’ll be back in a minute to check on you but Alisha will be here to answer any questions you might have.”

He didn't give Mitch the time of day, zipping back outside just as quickly as he'd come. Alisha got to work pulling his legs back together with the stirrups, the table whirring along with her movements. It had the adverse effect of brushing the skins of his thighs up against his stiffening cock, thereby making the agonizing pulses of blood oh so much worse.

It was essentially the clinic blue balling him, and it made him want to spit up. Not that attending to his needs in public was on his agenda by any means, but he felt personally vindicative of them pumping him with aphrodisiacs and then telling him not to beat off.

An awkward, longing silence took over the room. Oh, he had tons of questions, more than ever before, but voicing them seemed futile. He was instead left to brave the side effects of their little experiment and not freak out. Well, he was freaking out, and as his body began to adjust to what had been injected into the skin and bloodstream, he could feel his stomach begin to cramp up. Horrible, twisting cramps.

The charge inside of him was experiencing a feedback loop, having nowhere to go but to settle in his gut and take up more space than he was willing to give. It was getting harder to breathe, almost like his throat was constricting. Alisha remained absent-minded of it all, rearranging the palettes and wipes on the sink.

“Please,” he panted out. Besides his dick enlarging before his very eyes, he could see the sheet of the hospital gown tent around his chest, nipples erect with a pins and needles-like vividity. He’d do anything to have a surface to rub against, if only because he needed the momentary release from the confines of his libido.

Alisha didn’t appear flustered, even with how Mitch’s heart was racing like a stallion, pelvis muscles sending him bent forward. She approached him like one would a stray cat, trying to get his attention with a hand on his knee that was dangerously close to his swelling dick.

“Just a little bit more,” she said. “Then you’ll be filled. It’ll be okay.”

He could cringe. She talked down to him like she would a child, but at that specific occasion, anything would've been useless babble to him. If he didn’t get some stimulation soon, he would die.

That’s when the first of many euphoric waves hit, hypnotic and fluctuating in power. Like codeine, it made his whole world slip away and if Alisha wasn’t there he would’ve slumped forward and hit his head on the floor hard enough to give himself a concussion. That’s precisely when the doctor returned with two aides, risking a simple grin when he realized Mitch had fallen victim to his prescribed treatment.

Hazy from the effects of the drugs, he needed to lean on both the escorts just to tumble out through the slanted entranceway, and trying to navigate the blurry winter wasteland of wallpaper and tile made his eyes burn. Inside, he was brimming with unused energy, beginning him to thrust up and hump the air, while deeper, burrowing into his gut was something entirely new. He didn’t know what to do with it, but all the same, he felt empowered.

“Whadda I do?” he got out, through clenched teeth. If it was a migraine or just nails digging into his forehead, he didn’t know, but it made something as simple as opening his eyes a chore.

“You don’t have to do anything but sit back and let yourself be taken,” John said directly into his earlobe. “Your partner is under some pretty heavy stuff; they won’t recognize anything about you so they’ll just move automatically.”

“And how long am I gonna be in ther’?” he slurred.

“We’ll give you a brief recess whenever your partner’s stamina runs low. You may find they become more coherent as they’re working away. You can talk to them, just don’t distract them.”

“M’kay,” Mitch agreed. It sounded easy enough, barring the fact he was being walked to his own grave. He didn’t even want to imagine what it would be like; the weight of the doctor’s fingers was bad enough. Anything thicker, heavier, more alive than that would be downright unbearable.

They stopped at an emotionless brick wall of a door, with no windows and a single handed that required a key card to access. As the doctor scanned his card, Mitch got a look around the facilities and saw rooms just like the one he'd been in checkering the opposite side of the facilities’ hallways. A blast of warm air streamed out from the open walkway, but before he could so much as take a step forward, the doctor pinched at the wrinkles in his gown.

“You'll want this off,” he said. Technically, he was right, it was hot, much hotter with the door walloping open. The moisture inside had an essence of sultriness to it, wheedling him in and ensnaring him in his padded prison cell.

He tried not to feel self-conscious when they slipped the straps off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. They probably saw a hundred dicks on a good day; he was no different. He could only hope that any bypassers wouldn’t take heed of his throbbing dick and inability to stand still, the itch inside of him blooming just by walking.

He was deposited into the modernistic chamber, so dark his eyes needed a minute to adjust before he could take in his surroundings. Windows were out of the question, the only piece of furniture being a mattress kicked to the side, cut headboard a fairer colour that made it stick out like a sore thumb. Having something of comfort there, attainable in front of his very eyes, made him gurgle in relief and stumble towards it, crashing onto the cushy fabric and bouncing with the weight of his body. The grind from his cock sliding against the comforter only exacerbated the problems plaguing his head.

If he wasn’t so horny, he’d sleep. He wanted out from the testing and the poking and prodding, wanted to be back in the safety of his bedroom with only his alarm clock jolting him out of his mind space. Few entered the rooms and left intact, much less willing to tell the tale. No one wanted to be labelled, but it was inevitable, even if for some it was considered the highest honour.

The extra sensation from the grooves his thumbprint could pick up kept him occupied with rubbing circles into the bed, at least until a new arrival prompted the door sliding open. Only, this one wasn’t dropped down and given time to recuperate from the exhaust fumes and sparks from after treatment; he was shoved in, snarling like a rabid beast. Mitch tensed up, kneading the fabric as he took in the other man’s thick arousal, dick standing proud and legs braced apart in anticipation of a fight.

It was easier to read the body language before the face, because the body left details up to interpretation. He could believe his pursuer was anyone, and the mystery wasn’t something he wanted to unveil anytime soon. It safeguarded him from shame and embarrassment, knowing someone among the ranks had seen him stripped of his clothes and his dignity and fucked him brainless.

But, alas, this one was different, because the veins and bruises were familiar. Definitely a teammate; less costly for the organization but a bigger gamble. The curled, dark hair dusting the arms and legs was the first sign, the thickening stubble the next. Last was the square jaw and slanted eyes, betraying the motive of a hunter on the prowl.

Bed forgotten, Mitch mounted to his feet and set a stance for himself, backing away to put a reasonable distance between them. It was easy pretending he’d be fucked by some league’s legacy star. He’d take Connor McDavid’s dick and drool for it if that’s what the people wanted. But this was his best friend, the one he piggyback rode and joked with. He couldn’t be branded as his hookup, not in a million years.

“Aus, Aus,  _please_ ,” he pleaded, but it was clear Auston wasn’t in the correct frame of mind to pay him heed, let alone recognize him. The delirium masking his face was a momentary sense of relief for Mitch, because it gave him cover to take cover behind. He didn’t want Auston looking at him from that point forward and seeing a willing, open hole for him to use.

There was no physical barrier keeping them apart, the free-range aspect once so humane now like a self-inflicted castration. There was nowhere to run to and nothing to hide behind. Auston was like a machine running on gasoline, and without any moral judgement or tether to reality he worked as a slave to his biology. It was telling him to advance on Mitch and take. Mitch wanted no part of it; had agreed to carry a child but not the child of his best friend. He would be reduced to a statistic, to one of Auston’s many dams he’d have over the years, bred with his so-called superior genes. _No_. No way. Mitch’s hand fisted the duvet of the bed, yanking up to grant himself a sprout of modesty,

Auston was not deterred, he continued his steady pace forward, almost running because of the urgency to copulate, to fuck a baby into him. As he pulled closer, Mitch’s back hit the wall, the blanket spread out between them and still veiling Mitch’s frontal regions like a dress. In the end, it was a skimpy garment, capable of being torn and shred until the seams and stitches were pulled. It was no interlocking steel barrier, and he knew it.

However, it was the only projectile he had. Before Auston could so much as stroke his arms, Mitch had thrown the cover in the man’s general direction. aiming for the face but only successful in entwining the man’s legs and sending him crashing towards the floor, pulling Mitch with him. The momentary struggle to right himself with his attacker still a major threat had his adrenaline spiking, the need to submit dwarfed in favour of his own self-preservation.

They rolled around in the fleece, trying to upright themselves for a good couple of seconds, and those minuscule blips were all Mitch needed to take control of the situation. Auston was still squirming around like a turtle turned on its shell because of the downside of being so heavily drugged and therefore losing his sense of surroundings, and with deadly precision, Mitch was able to press the blanket down near his legs and stabilize him. All the bucking in the world couldn’t give the other man leverage, and the incentive to attack only increased in Mitch as he watched Auston try to ascend to his knees and find purchase.

He wasn’t going to be the dam for some ridiculous request from the higher-ups. He was capable of coming into Auston until the man was sloppy and carrying a brood of his own, and he wanted them to be sure of it. After all, it wasn’t unheard of; it’d made headlines around the world when they’d put Danny Briere and Claude Giroux in a room and it was _Danny_ that walked out pregnant. And, to the organization’s credit, it worked out pretty well. Damn well. And it never came at the compromise of their friendship either, something he didn’t want to slice between himself and Auston.

That was all he could think about as he kicked at Auston’s vulnerable shins and sent the man plunging to the ground. Mitch could then scurry out between his bicep and armpit and twist his hips so that he pinned him, squeezing his thighs around Auston’s waist to keep him in place and receiving. Inside of his head there was a chant of _no no no_ , begging him to stand down and let his body be ravaged to fill that empty void inside of him.

“Fuck,” he slurred out, tongue flapping in a useless attempt to form coherent words. Auston snorted, bucking up, thrusting and working in contest to dislodge Mitch.

Too late to notice he’d let his guard down, Auston summoned the raw strength to pull himself forward with both hands like a cripple. Mitch, therefore, fell forward and lost his balance in the process, and Auston was then able to wind himself up and kick Mitch’s feet. The aching friction was blessed, but it came at the cost of losing himself to Auston’s will.

Auston worked hard to make a steal for his hips, but Mitch was able to scratch at his eyes and face to avert the worst of his efforts, making brunt slashes at the bridge of Auston’s nose until blood welled up. The rest were resolved by him kicking and screaming, biting down on any skin he could find until he tasted the metallic tinge of blood on his tongue. His gums ached from the chomping, but holding off what the only hope he had of getting out alive, and his sole objective.

It didn’t matter that his future was at stake, he’d dislocate every bone in the man’s body, break every finger before he was able to be violated for the will of others. This was the one thing he wouldn’t sacrifice. This year he was winning the Stanley Cup, pregnancies be damned.

He was just about ready to continue what he started, roll Auston over and say his apologies when there was outside intervention. His eyes had grown used to the dingy air of the room and its darkness so that when the door connecting it to the hallway opened and they were flooded with stripes of white light, he balked.

A steady pulse of people took precedence, walking quickly in their direction with masked faces and gloved hands. The uniforms they wore looked like something like church-attire, falling past their knees and concealing their necks and shoulders. Besides their cheeks and forehead, little to no skin was left uncovered to the naked eye.

Salvation seemed imminent; they would have to see this was a bad idea and revoke their request to have him dam. The more he repeated it in his head, the more it bad sense. They were compatible, never would be.

Arousal still prevalent, he did stand up but only to put distance between himself and Auston. The other man was still thrashing about, clearly not given a sedative or any reason to believe he could be controlled. Three men streaked right past Mitch and linked their arms around Auston’s neck and back, pulling him up but not giving him free access to run about. The second skin hit Auston’s own and just like that, the star player’s motive was lit alive again, and it was like the fuse had been lit again.

The remaining few took to Mitch. Despite thinking they could possibly be there to aid him, panic soon began clawing at his throat as he realized there was no sympathy in their eyes. This was a done deal. And with there being three of them to one of him, besting Mitch took little to no difficulty. With very little effort, they were able to pinch at the open tendons and flabs of skin until he stopped thrashing.

“Mr. Marner,” the first spoke, calmly but partially muted through the fibres of the mask. “We ask you exercise control over yourself and sit quietly.”

“I’m not going to let him fuck me! I’m not!” He shook his head back and forth, trying to block out the noise.

“You agreed you would dam this child. It is written in your agreement. If you do not comply we will have to handcuff you with the leather cuffs.” As if to make good on their threat, one of the assistants not holding him down flashed a harness-like device most definitely made of leather. It looked as though its sole purpose was to pin the user's arms behind their back and keep them there, with an extra, longer piece running up and forming a collar he assumed would choke him should he not comply. It was more terrifying than any prospect of intimacy they had proposed before.

There was no question, he refused to put them on. To have absolutely no assertion over himself or his body while in the throes of sex, with someone high on testosterone and a miracle mix of drugs just as bad as his own if not worse, was a recipe for disaster. He was nodding even before he made the mistake of turning his head to get a look at Auston, who was still making noticeable thrusts and fighting the oppression of the people holding them back. He’d go after just about anything in that state.

With the matter of the cuffs resolved, and Mitch having pledged himself to a mute, senseless puppet, it was then easy to reposition him in the bed for easy access. His thighs were spread, stomach pressed to the bed until the positioning made the muscles in his neck pop with the strain of turning his head. Instead, he was suspected to the horrible commotion of pounding and various yelps as Auston was forcefully led back to his side.

They’d sparsely let go of Auston and he was already on Mitch’s back in seconds, sucking at the skin again and making loose efforts to slide in between the cleft of his ass. Just like that, the trainers and medical staff were recalled, their duty done. They could leave nature to do its course without fear of Mitch rebelling again, no matter how much he wanted to.

It hurt, having little to no trust put into him to make his own decisions. To have bystanders watch and do nothing to help him in his predicament; it was hard to swallow. But the doctors and staff’s betrayal paled in comparison to Auston’s. Then and there, he lost the battle. Although he’d tried to pull his legs up to protect himself and obscure his entrance from penetration, Auston’s medication was working with him, not against him. The feverish thrusting of the man’s hips promised retribution, and before Mitch could so much as ground himself, Auston had embedded his teeth in his neck.

Mitch froze, still as a statue, letting the blood in his neck pump faster to combat the surprise attack. Disoriented and drugged until his eyeballs rolled back into his head, Auston could then switch their positioning and take over the doggy-style position Mitch had been in earlier, granting him full control. He pushed in with little remorse, not bothering to voice his pleasure, grief, or apologies. His groaning was the only answer Mitch could work with.

The first push takes him captive, Auston’s locked on before the word go was left unsaid. His cock was finally able to slide through and mount itself at Mitch’s entrance and no writhing would make a difference. When Auston sensed he wasn't going to meet immediate resistance, he finally thrust in. Mitch wasn't able to control the spastic flippage of his arms, trying to get away but also get closer as the drugs he'd ingested were finally put to use. His body had no difficulty adjusting, keeping his hind up and chin down, opposing his mental processing fighting tooth and nail for space. The sensation of Auston's bangs streaking up the impression of his spine didn't help matters, and he swore that even with all the preparation he was tearing.

It didn't make much of a difference to Auston, who's pressed his dick in as far as it could go. He was shoved forward with each thrust, barely given a second to breathe before Auston pulled back and tried again. There was a sense of urgency floundering about, pronounced in how Auston wasn't even attempting to try different angles and find his prostate. Auston’s end solution was to come, and anything detrimental to that didn't make a lick of sense.

By then, precome had wet the head of Mitch's dick, just enough to be noticeable, and he could feel Auston beginning to gush too. The winger’s body kept trying to respond with eagerness even where it was wrong. He should be kissed and kneaded, nipped behind the ears and supported, but he was strung up like cattle. There was no requirement to show familiarity, and he could argue that’d make it worse.

Auston picked up speed amongst his gabbling, still angling his thrusts the wrong way and selfishly slamming into Mitch until he couldn’t hold himself upright. Every time he did so, a wet slap would ring out, embarrassingly loud and made worse by how Mitch could feel moisture stemming from his hole from the mixture of lubricant and other fluids. When the air licked his underside it would catapult his sensitivity, which would make him back up and into Auston and link them together.

If he tried creeping forward on his hands and knees Auston would follow suit and pound into him hard, and if he backed up, Auston’s dick would go deeper into him until he squealed and rose with the compulsion to let his body mould into the shape of his mate’s. His brain was going to short circuit sooner or later, the inability to stop and reposition themselves or simply get a sense of their bearings making the ache in his arms and neck more conspicuous. Keeping the pace up for any longer than one fuck would be out of the question.

Finally, almost an eternity later, Auston slipped back on the balls of his feet and his next thrust finally rubbed against Mitch’s prostate, resulting in him successfully convulsing on the spot. His hole fluttered around the mass inside of it, trying to draw it in deeper and keep it there. Auston took the permission with pride, mashing the head of his dick in. He raked his nails down Mitch’s back to keep himself from falling back.

Of course, Auston came first, and did so with fanfare. He lacked any restraint, shouting out as Mitch felt his cock engorge with the excess blood and then pump copious amounts of come deep into him. The extra lubricant made the next thrust ten times as easy, the motion forcing more globs deeper inside where he wouldn’t be able to clean himself.

(He outright refused to think of it as Auston impregnating him; few conceived on the first try. He could be out of there, with Auston’s semen absorbed into his skin like a sponge and not be pregnant.)

He’d hoped that the oversensitivity post-orgasm would ultimately be Auston’s undoing, because free sex aside it was a bitch. It hurt to have marathon sex. Auston, however, was not discouraged from placing two hands on Mitch’s lower back, dragging himself out and then rubbing the skin of his cock between the globes of Mitch’s ass to wipe the excess moisture off. Still horny as all living hell, Mitch tried to bare himself and incentivize Auston to return, and when that didn’t work, he tried worming out from underneath him to give his abandoned dick some relief. Auston put a stop to that with a warning slap to his hips.

Still rutting, Auston didn’t obey any of Mitch’s unspoken requests, only waiting for a minute or so in immunity before he slid right back in and laid himself flat on top of Mitch to press the air out of his lungs. It must’ve been hell for Auston, but for Mitch, it was like extinguishing the fire inside of him with buckets full of water. He couldn’t help but lust after the thick shape of Auston’s cock and how it filled him so well, even when it was unwanted. It was a bittersweet kind of relief.

In turn, he fit it like a glove, body instinctively squeezing it in little bursts to coax it in as opposed to denying the intrusion. He wanted it. His sex drive was wrung so high he’d take anything; would choke on someone’s fingers and wet their skin with his saliva until it pruned. Auston appeared to be struggling with the same compulsion, body running like a well-oiled machine with one mission.

The stress inside of Mitch brewed and built like heat trapped inside a rice cooker, waiting out Auston’s bad stamina and taking the brutal fucking with a grimace. When Auston actually bothered to put some care into attending to Mitch’s needs, he came dangerously close to boiling point and his body would shake. His hole would clench and greedily take what it could get, neglected dick the colour purple.

By the time he actually did orgasm, he was so tired with the emotional burden of undergoing the process and the actual deed of sex itself to manage some larger than life moan, although his back did make a perfect arch, his vision melting like ice cream on a hot summer day. He couldn’t grasp where he was or what he was doing when it was over, boneless against the mattress smelling of sweat and sex.

And through it all, Auston kept going. Kept propelling himself forward until he reached a second orgasm and came in Mitch, painting his insides white. Mitch was panting against the covers, Auston a wreck on top of him and still going with a whine. They were swamped with more fluids than Mitch could keep track of, the perspiration under Auston’s hands making each thrust slippery.

It eventually culminated in Auston just ramming himself into Mitch, who’d long since sagged down and stopped reacting. All the pleasurable sensations tranquillized him. It was too much work to so much as raise his hand, and so he laid down like a dumped manikin and took it. Took it like a fucking slut.

He desperately tried to forget how when he turned his head, a near hour later, Auston's eyes were beginning to clear. The soft, brown irises locked on his own and recognition was evident; he knew this was his best friend debauched underneath him.

And it didn't stop Auston from thrusting in twice as hard as the next opportunity.

**Author's Note:**

> The main character is coerced into acting on a clause in the contract where he will be impregnated by another player. He signs a contract expecting a playout and is then prepared in advance of his procedure by doctors (which he partially consents to, though he is anxious throughout). He then finds out his partner is his best friend and tries to resist sex. The doctors threaten him, giving him no foreseeable option to leave (he can, but they do not tell him this with their interests in mind). 
> 
> come chat with me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr


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